A journey I just don't have a map for

There was a point in my life when nothing was worth my time anymore. It sounds familiar yes? Even cliched? It sounds so like the children we are that it makes others smile in derision?
You do not know, you cannot remember what it was. I do, all too clearly. I remember so much that I can see the telltale signs in those I love. I can feel them sinking slowly in self-pity and anguish and it's real. We don't invent that. It happens.

How can I tell you, how can I possibly describe to you what it feels like to be crawling with shards of yourself dislodging your belly? How can I tell you what it is to know that there is no light and no end of the tunnel? That is the worst. The point when you lay on the floor of your room not asking for anything, not wanting anything, just thinking, letting the tears pour down and thinking... if I do this will they care? Will any of them truly care?

The inevitable answer: I don't know. By God I wish the answer was NO because that would be so much easier to deal with.

Crash And Burn

For my friends and family, for those who have stood behind before or besides me in hard times and in happiness. Thank you. Thank you Mom, Andrea, Adrian, Joel and Lorena. Thank you Millie. Thank you for breaching your way into my life and soul. Thank you Marina for staying up and talking. Thank you Cesar and Sebas and Alan for making me laugh and being my friends. I wish I could have written this for you but I didn't, and though you may think it stupid and sentimental it's for you.

When you feel all alone
And the world has turned it's back on you
Give me a moment please
To tame your wild wild heart
I know you feel like the walls are closing in on you
It's hard to find reliefe and people can be so cold
When darkness is upon your door
And you feel like you can't take anymore

Let me be the one you call
If you jump I'll break the fall
Lift you up and fly away with you into the night
If you need to fall apart
I can mend a broken heart
If you need to crash then crash and burn you're not alone

When you feel all alone
And a loyal friend is hard to find
You're caught in a one way street
With the monsters in your head
When hopes and dreams are far away
And you feel like you can't face the day

Let me be the one you call
If you jump I'll break the fall
Lift you up and fly away with you into the night
If you need to fall apart
I can mend a broken heart
If you need to crash then crash and burn you're not alone

Colour Blind

My period is killing me. I am in so much pain and have had no desire whatsoever to do homework or anything in the least productive, maybe I'm just lazy. The day seemed to mimic my mood, with it's grey tint and it's stinging cold. Pain makes me feel vulnerable, but perversely, ironically it also makes me feel like a woman. More desirable if I can be fragile, more beautiful if I do something that all woman do, so passionately as I do everything.

Pain is a cleanser. It means something, something important. It means something that is so clear and undebiable that it makes me as afraid as I will ever be. It has always been so, since I was a child I was afraid of dying in pain.

I called my father today and it made everything a lot better. It made things good again to feel like I can take the step myself, that I can stop being a child and give up the fight. We actuallt talked, he told me things and it was good, it was very good. I don't want to stop calling him, becuase it suddenly made me feel liek he wanted me to call or maybe it doesn't matter whether he wants me or not, but that he must have me because whichever way I am still his daughter. He must still love me. Some way.

He does, he is careless and I am certain. A certainty. But he does.

I don't have much to add except that it is getting late and I have finished only one homework assignment. At least I should get the art review over and start the Psychology thing. And get up not so late tomorrow. Mmmm... maybe some coffee, yes.

Prince of Stories

I am very tired, exhausted almost. It's entirely due to lack of sleep and the overwork. But it's worth it, every second of my life is worth it at this point, I love, caress and possess every instant with the crystal clear clarity of no regrets. I don't look for a future but I sit and wait. I do things and somehow regain a control, a decision, a crucial point in which I can say and I will do. I haven't had for long, much too long.

I went to the UCSC library with my mother after school today. Things like this, like yesterday, things that set my mind to thinking of what I will be doing in three years time. I began thinking about my thesis, about how am I going to get into college. Doing research on this Mental Illness program has been much like a thesis I think, because I've chosen such a specific theme.

And I can't write, I have completely lost the thread of my writing. Christ this is so frustrating. I am going to cry and I don't know why. I'm trying to think, to say something meaningful, about me, about what is going on in my life and my dad won't hear, becuase he sends my emails back with a three line response when I'm happy. Because he can't be bothered.

My mother IS bothered, she gives me the time of her day and her ear when I am talking about prejudice against mentally ill such as sociopaths. And she will take me to flamenco and to the nude model classes... and hell she lives with me. She loves me.

Oh father father, why can we not watch the flower trees together? Do you love me father? People are shocked when they hear it, when they hear me shout for you like this. He loves you, they always do, they just don't know how. But I doubt. What can you want of me? What can you think when you receive my mails? What do you want from me? What do I do to make you proud? To make you love? what do I do to make you my father like you were before? What do I do to have your eyes,breath, yous love, and soul and everything that echoes?

Because I am the only daughter you will ever have, but you don't want me.

I was going to try to interpret Mari's dream, but I'll just tell her tomorrow.

I'll call you Dad and I will write to you now. You do not destroy me even if you bring me tears. I am as happy as I was, as willing as always. You do nothing... and it hurts.

Red Sky In the Morning

Just answered a second mail from my dad telling him a lot about what is going on here with me and that I will call him on Friday. He's sending me a birthday present (money obviously).

Homework catching up on me, sneaking behind my shoulders and now I suddenly have time for nothing (not even writing here or answering private mail which I am doing anyway). I should be finishing my art review or doing sketches or just tinkering with the St. Patrick's day things. And into all this I want to squeeze in the nude model sessions on Mondays, courtsey of my beautiful wonderful art teacher.

Not only that but it seems I have to remember more often that it's only me and my mother taking care of this house and that I have to clean my room myself and order it around and fold my clothes. I did all that this week, just now the room. It takes a good mood and work. At least my room is livable now. It'll be easier to work in it. And all of this makes me think of the time when I will be alone and making a home for myself. I know I will be alone at some point becuase I want to try it, somehow I find the solitude alluring, not without firends but living by myself. And Millie says loneliness can kill, I believe, but solitude is different I would like to think.

I am listening to the Amelie soundtrack, an old french song by some lady. It reminds me of dinners at my Grandfather's house. There was a mystery then, something that obssesses me even now. Soemthing that lined my childhood in mahogany and leather. Something that spoke to me of wine glasses and secret passages and the giant portrait of a girl that was of my blood. That I could describe what it was growing up in a house were the echo of your footsteps and the shadow of your reflection could become a ghost in some tragic tale. How to describe the place were there was a fountain to build a world upon, an empty fountain to sit in and have fun and pretend to clean. Don't get me wrong, I loved it but I did not love them as I did the myth and the world they had made. I grew up in a pretend romance, in the small caricature my fmaily held together. I loved it and despised it when it fell apart.

Somehow they built my sense of beauty, they built my sense of intellect, they built what would be my reading career. My mother, she built my life.

I'm done with reading Lord of the Flies. It was good, not a favorite but I find it an incredible work nonetheless. There were some very frightening parts and it was masterfully written, very clear and yet beautiful also. Maybe I'll read more of Golding.

From talking to Marina.

How to describe it for you? When you make things, when you build, you finish eventually. Then you walk away and build something new, or sit in contemplation of what you have done. When you birth a character you and her do the same; there is a point in which you look back, the wind tugging at your hair and clothes, and you behold what you have made. The character will breath, she will give a great sigh and say "It's over now. It is accomplished", perhaps she will go on. We all go on, one way or another, because history slips under us like some great shinning bird. What you have written then shapes intself into a meaning, something that your character has told you. It is her life up til then and the imagining of what a future may hold.

I have made a statement. I have said what war and hate does to a child, but I also say, that there is a chance for recovery. My character has spoken to me, she has taken her breathe and plunged back into the richness of life to find a safeguard for herself.

I come to myself, I find her beautiful.

Wise Child

Calm days. My mother has the car at last and we spent a good weekend enjoying the commodity. I fortunately bought clothes I needed and feel much better about dressing in the morning. It's funny how I felt so cheerful about the shopping, I used to be miserable everytime I had to get new things, especially underwear. It's another sign that I feel better with myself, that things are nicer and somehow working out despite everything. And the bras I had were falling to pieces already becuase I was much too cheap to actually go get some for myself. It's the sort of thing my dad would do, how annoying.

Speaking of which, I answered his mail at long last. I think I will keep writing to him, probably send him my St. Patrick's Day Card along with everyone else. I just don't want to keep acting like I child. I should call him or he will not call me. My birthday is fast approaching and perhaps it might be a good one. I know he'll call me on that day, but I haven't asked him about the money and I don't think he sent any extra for my Birthday.

Oh well.

I've been in an inspirational mood and writing a bit more than I had. Well to begin with I took up with the blog again and that's something, even if I do fill it up with innanities.

We're studying personality disorders for psychology and I took up sociopathy (or Antisocial Personality Disorder) as my pet proyect. As I read on it became disturbingly clear that my character Dante fitted the type. It hurts me that he does because I love him as part of myself, a part that cannot be bothered, that doesn't care, that knows what is wrong, that is disgusted. It's childish of me to want to redeem him now I have made him this monster, becuase I cannot rest with him the way he is as I could not rest were he to remain happy. Nothing fits Dante, nothing contents him or contains him. Is he another empty vessel for his God? I know he knows what I'm thinking.

Dante knows God loves him, becuase from God comes all love and all life and all light. He knows and he cannot accept it, why should God love him?

Usually the first emotion sociopaths began to exhibit during therapy is depression. I said that could eplain why he is so miserable with Lucius. Dante did not find a shrink, he found God. Dante knows there is something deeply wrong with him and it disturbs him. It's part of his character to be disturbed. Because he's lived with himself for so long and it unsettles him that others don't, the world around him cares and regrets.

It fascinates him.

Dante loved Lucius because he was all Dante was not. He was human in so many ways, and man was made in the image of God.

Someday this week I have to run to the UCSC library and get a couple of books for my psychology report. I should be able to begin writing it tomorrow. I started with the art review on Ana Mendieta. I was very young when I saw the exhibition of her work at the Art Appriciation class. I sensed some of the tragedy through the photos and the story the teacher told us. I knew she'd died like that somehow. Fallen through the great window, maybe murdered, maybe suicide.

I think her work spoke of that, in each faceless gesture, in the minutes of shabby film, in the shaky lines of red ink over leaves. Her work spoke of fragility, of mortality, of some terrible horrible secret in the foster homes.

Speaking of art. White Wolf is closing, already declared bankrupcy. Probably Joel has a better detail of everything. I have just let the steam go but I still want to write that I hate this. I hate the fact that the authors and artists and masterminds will disband and that there will be no more World of Darkness. Their books are beautiful, they are more than just a game. They serve as ecellent history books and beautiful artwork collections, they are novels and short stories and plays and verything, just everything.

They gave birth to Knossos...

Well it's too late to keep rambling and I should go to sleep now that I can...

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	Low
Schizoid:	Low
Schizotypal:	High
Antisocial:	Low
Borderline:	Moderate
Histrionic:	High
Narcissistic:	High
Avoidant:	High
Dependent:	High
Obsessive-Compulsive:	Moderate
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! --

You can be me when I'm gone

It is a good thing to keep one's eyes open all day long... is it? Becuase one's strength laxes and is nothing by the evening an even sitting upright writing this takes herculean effort.

I went to Ginnia's today and laughed and talked and drew and felt more strangely at home than I've ever felt since I got here. We goofed, talked of affinities, we talked of a deep strange rooted problem and what we think of people. We discuss God. It can happen, and I am thankful that we both have the capacity to look and accept for this beautiful thing that our friendship is. I am grateful to have a person with whom I cna paint a wall and discuss a book and tell stories, I am glad to have her here in my arms near me, becuase it makes the silence easier.

We come into this world alone, we leave alone and all love and friendship is a lie we build to escape this awful loneliness.

We are discussing phobias, mental illness in psychology, we are finding meaning. Because the loneliness of Death frightens us so we make meaning, we make goodness. We make Gods.

It's not a new thought obviously. "Beautiful man who made God in his image" It comes along in the introduction for Gaiman's story collection Book of Dreams. I shall love Mrs. Catherine Frankee who was a not so great teacher but an incredible friend for that book. I shall remember always. I shall try.

Millie and Andy and Adrian and Mari and Joel, I love you, because somehow we have made a connection, I said it months ago when I was so frightened I wanted only to crawl in a little hole and shrivel up.

I'm happy now. I can make beauty still. My beauty goes for you, my firends and mother. Whatever it is, whatever I o I do from and for everyone. An most above all for myself.

Here

I'm sitting on my bed, covers haphzardly stowed away and work strewn all around me. I can't even begin to think of tidying up. The moment I start working on something I think up something else I would like to do. Just now the thought of the pending mail I have to send to Choche made me stop. There is the map, there are the art sketches. Tissue for the skull and the St. Patrick's E-Card. Dear god...

Psychology project. Statistics and definition of sociopaths.

I want to find Armand fanart for Mari. Upload the Interview songs on my web so she can get them out. Oh lord...

I am disorganized and easily distracted, just remembering my psychology project on mental illness, just remembering everything...

It's only midnight, it's sad to think 'only' midnight. I should go to sleep but we all know I won't.

I'm getting new clothes on Saturday and I am planning to start a no food diet ha ha. Will it work? I think not, it's just ritual fasting really.

In Demand

I am so tired. I've been strangely sick for the last couple of days and I think it's becuase of those idiotic pills. That was a stupid thing to do. Obviously the mouly bread did nothing to help.

All in all life has continued its natural course with the sligth that I amfinally answering my emails as I should. I aught to be writing my EoW chapter but it seems after three brilliant scenes I haven't had the focus to get back to it. Mainly that is what I have been doing instead of writing in this blog, answering mail and thinking of chapter an homework and the usual suspects.

I finished Brave New World too.

I don't know if I have ever been so fundamentally bothered by any book before. If I've ever been shaken to the core of my intellectual being with anything else. Lolita made emotion boil, this just made my reason hate it. I didn't even find it beautifully written or even particularily well. The authos is an average, but the idea, the whole theme. He lacks the character development to bring it to a fullsome bounty I think. An maybe that is why it is school requirement. Because you are not bothered with characters from the ideas they possess?

Beauty cannot be made of happiness, of contentment. Am I doomed then to make nothing and write nothing until I am in agony again? Art cannot exist without strife.

I feare that. I have always feared that.

I listen to the rising crescendo of Libera Me. I think of the sun setting over the Hagia Sofia. I think of a boy laying soaked and doomed in the streets of Paris. A broken bird. A young girl being kissed to sophocation.

I think, it is time to write on.

O Brave New World

I hate that book I hate it. It has touched too many of the old chords, too many of the old fears

I like the wind

There is a moment when you are walking a lonely highway when everything is cold and gray and you wrap your arms securely beneath you. You look up or at the cars rushing by you. Wind tugs at your hair and you feel beautiful.
Alone in a lonely highway you feel brave and beautiful. Like a soldier in the silent after-battle. You feel like you can spread your arms and cry truths to the world.
I feel like Niblem standing on some hich balcony looking down at the burning city, the burning dream. I will make a new heaven, I will be good, I will be a warrior of truth. I will be hers.

And then there is the delicious chill of fevers, when you are light headed and concious of a body that is yours, a skin that prickles if touched, a shiver that is both heat and touch.

The art teacher reached out for my hair. It's long enough to form heavy ringlets. Is it natural? Yes. I am not sure if I like it.

Feeling intensely is not good for the Utopia. What would I be there? A carcass, a soulless walking carcass. If I feel so empty with no anguish or bliss or great world-changing work I would have died there. Would have known nothing and plunged inside some icy waters.

I am trying to feel this with significance, write something. Maybe I need more sleep.

You Look So Fine
No one online. No other thought but the fact that I would like nothing better than to spend the rest of my life cheerfully doing nothing.
My throat itches inside but the dizziness has gone away through forceful sleep. I could think of nothing but laying down and closing my eyes. I woke up with not even the strength to acknowledge the waking or the day or the fact that I had to go to school. I closed my eyes again and considered simply going back to sleep. It doesn't matter, I said, am doing well. But frankly I have no patience for another detention and had history exam and finish the art proyect and a whole other considerations which would have made me feel guilty for not showing up to school.
There is nothing I want more than to be with Ginnia, or talk to Millie or huddle in my sofa and read.
I don't want to draw or write or do anything remotely productive. I am not exhausted anymore but I have to sleep or will wake up extremely late tomorrow. And tomorrow should be spent in, well.... work.
Reading 'Brave New World' don't like science fiction much, can't relate to it. Except when it's something like Lain or Captain Harlock. That it says something more than just... we are all going to Hell. I like 'The Machine'.
I have absolutely nothing interesting to say. I still feel sick and tired but not enough to go to sleep and I needed to come here and write to feel like I'm going somewhere.
It's time I started working on EoW again.

I'm with stupid

Oh dear God, I am so tired I cannot believe it. I think I have half a cold already and I need to just lay down and sleep. It wasn't the best day of my life, but apart from that it was pretty average. I lost my bag in the bus which was bloody stupid and I have been sniffing all through the afternoon. I sat in the cold waiting for news of my bag for like half an hour before I called it quits and decided to just go home and get some rest.
I have a craving for wine just because I ate a baguette without any. Now I munch an apple and I want white wine.
I think I have never wrote about that house in Mexico City that I wish to live in. It's in Altavista avenue (ha, the irony!) and looks like a rundown cross between a castle and a mansion, but too small to be either. It's surrounded by the sort of monstrously large trees that create shadow instead of darkness and the garden is earth and leaf. It reminds me of Aura.
I'm done with Time of the Twins which now seems like a tremendous waste of effort and time. It disgusts me. Now I have decided to go for another book by the name of Brave New World that is obligatory reading for English classes here. We shall see, as they say.
There is nothing tremendously exciting but I don't want to get out of the habit and my head is throbbing, I think I'll sleep.
Bird for art is becoming gorgeous drawing. Need to make tattoo with Messiah icon.

The Passion

I don't think I've ever cried quite so much in a movie... not merely cried but actually wailed and shrieked in anguish. Maybe it's becuase of the exquisite physical pain, the ugliness of it, the disgust and reality. Maybe it was just Jesus. I am not a religious person. I do not believe in a God above or below or in the middle. If anything I believe in myself, my family, my friends. I don't 'lack' any spiritual fulfilment. I don't care, whether there is a God or there isn't.

I seldom thinks He believes in me. We have come to a truce I think.

But I love his son, becuase I know his son was real, I know what he did. He loved his fellow man. He changed the world, for good or for worse.

And we have learnt nothing from the example of a man who, whether divine or simply wise, loved enough to die for it. All over the world people still die in agony, men and women still laugh and point at executions. Suffering and humiliation is still in place. Maybe we cannot rid the world of suffering, but we can learn to feel for it, and maybe, just maybe things will change.

On another note, The Passion, tis said, is 'antisemitic' and I have decided to embark upon a quest to find if that is true. I'll poke my face at the library tomorrow and find the Times article Sebas was talking about. After all, I AM supposed to make an effort to be informed.

I am thinking of Ma-ri-ha, of Niblem, of the falling of the Akkadians. How little has the the West seen Noah, a mere two milleniums. There were ages and eons before us. Do we dare say we have the answers? A child is doomed to repeat it's parent's mistakes. We humans do not change, not to the core, we adapt and we go on. We live in the last minute of the last our of our Mother. another year will dawn and we might not be there to see it.

We will sink in the darkness, into the waters that birthed us and we will be food to the new order. Or legend.

Or bones in the sand.




I am so tired I could not believe it if I had insomnia today. I have little worries. It seems I came out with A in all of my recent works. I am doing good, not merely ok but good.

I think worries about the whole revalidation thing are coming back, or at least they should. I don't feel like I've 'wasted' this year, even if I do have to repeat eleventh.

It just takes time to get accostumed to the writing, it just takes practice and I will be like the Great Ones...

The trick is to keep breathing

Time to go to bed. I forgot again to come and write a fuller description of the day. Blossoming love for mother and lifestyle, most probably due to conversation in the Psychology room. Nothing particularily exciting. Nothing terribly devastating or blissful or fascinating.

I sit in class. I do work. I do my homework. And it is astounding how good I feel after I am done. It is astounding how much contentment it gives me. Writing in the blog however makes me want more. Makes me want to reach deeper, makes me want to draw things out of the well. Is it time to just say the things, the beautiful spontaneous things that errupt in the day? That it feels good to be home after school. That Shirley Manson and Aimee Mann's voices course through me like the vibration of underground water. I long to lay my head on the ground and let the sound be.

I like music, so I told Noah. I cannot make it myself, perhaps I am too undisciplined, but I like it. And it helps me write, it helps me think, it helps me plan and dream.

I long to lay my pen and make beauty come out of it. I want to make drawings that will be good but I know I can't, never to my standard. So I turn to my great passion and try to find if I can still write.

I am docked in safer waters. This has been the year of criminology for me, of studying the ugly side of humanity. I went from Columbine to the Death Penalty to Jack the Ripper and back to Death. I had to study cases, think as a psychopath. I had to discover truths. I want to delve deeper there and to exctract my truth. Because when I think of violence I think of Astatos and inevitably Dante's cold empty eyes come out.

And it all falls down to this fascination with God, because God is humanity, because I cannot believe anything else. I don't feel the presence or love or gaze of something greater, grander, higher. But I feel love for my fellow man. I feel fascination by everything, by pain and by life.

And I have gone through this many times. Trying to find my meaning. I am done with the history homework for the week so maybe I will have time to devout work to Messiah or just to clean my room up. I'm sleeping in the couch becuase my sheets are not ready and I am going to see the Passion tomorrow.

Goodnight.

Just a passing thought

I don't know how to begin. Incredible as it may sound I find myself living in one of the happiest moments of my life. I am tranquil, serene, I have small nagging worries. There is no torrent of bliss and no torrent of anguish, there is no torrent of blind beautiful inspiration, but there is a small constant trickle of contentment.

Looking back I don't know where it began, maybe Santa Cruz or maybe just recently. Sure I am dead worried about school, sure I have not written in a long time... but it's allright. For the first time since I don't remember when, I can say, it's all going to be just fine.